


Midfield Legacy

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: But the Real bosses fix him, Family, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Isco is a douche, Real Madrid CF, Sergio Luka and Marcelo are old dogs, Temper Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 21:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16818964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Isco's always been defiant in nature, and this time it might cost him his career.





	Midfield Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> The end overview of the 'Isco case' that's been going on, but I personally believe everybody's being drama queens. They're all fine.

Here's the thing.

Only certain kinds of movies get to movie theaters around the globe. If critics didn't exist and sorted the masterpieces away from complete tragedies, the movie industry would be flooded like a computer without firewall soared with viruses. That's _La Liga_. A nice, solidly rated movie that equally satisfies and dissatisfies the audience, so the rating poll should be fifty-fifty, regardless of the promises from trailers.

And Real Madrid represents a plot twist. By its noble standards and tradition for drama, almost always a bad one.

The way Isco sees it, the same twist could be easily unknotted. A couple of calculated steps, preplanned turned sides of the Rubik's cube, carefully evaded lose ends. They had all means to solve it until now. But then the main antagonist cuts in as a plot twist within a plot twist, takes his mask off and says, ˮHey, guess what! You think you're going away with it that easy? Well, I'm here to fuck you up some more!"

Everything was fine with only one plot twist until Solari showed up.

What happened to Lopetegui was just not fair. Yes, he was going to try an entirely different tactic than the one they got used to, and yes their forwards still aren't up to Ronaldo's level when it comes to net-busting. Nothing that can't be not solved, but these things take time. And after the world cup, they all had to re-arrange themselves completely anew. Not to mention some of the players weren't fully rested yet. Plus there was a lot of injuries going on during that period. All these were the factors that went completely against Lopetegui's favor.

Levante was just pure bad luck.

Lopetegui was unfortunate enough to be the first in the line of soldiers having to charge across no man's land.

Even as the cold Italian air was biting his cheeks where he was sitting in the stands of Stadio Olimpico with Luca Zidane, Isco was fuming with hot anger. There was so much unfairness on this one pile alone. He couldn't recall ever experiencing it. Throughout his entire Madrid career, he had been living up to the nickname Iker and Sergio gave him. The _'Magia'_ never let the club down. Zidane's occasional superfluous comments he could live without, but other than that, he was doing brilliantly.

Everything was better than this. This was hell. It was like the power died around the world for one full day, and it descended into complete chaos.

Nobody ever mentioned temper. The game was only important. The unrelated things the world could live off without were settled in the dressing room. So why stop the routine now, was Isco's main question.

After Bale's goal, his leg started bouncing, and the itchy nervousness increased the fury. He needed to run.

  
  


„You know, Llorente is actually pretty good", Marco told him, though the way he was picking around his meal in the cafeteria was careful.

That's putting it mildly. Llorente was a real-life Dash on the field, and no matter how much Isco hated to admit it, he knew he was right.

„Who said he wasn't?"

Marco seemed hesitant. ˮI mean you're constantly looking at him like you want to crack his head open on the curb."

The look Alarcón gave him next was rightfully doubtful and baffled. Had he a chance to put himself in a third person, he'd look out for the actual evidence because he never did that. Especially at the players who did good to this club. Right now, in difficult times, that's practically everything they needed.

Asensio knew that, too. Which is why he looked skeptical himself.

He debated about it during the training.

  
  


''Aditional weight'', they told him.

Basically, ''You got fat.''

Not too much, since the operation happened not so long ago, and gave him its fair share; Isco still kept the little bugger in a bottle (when he brought it to training to show off, Keylor covered his eyes first and then slapped him up the head, asking how the hell is the probability of death something to brag about).

Still, within recovery time required to sit still, and additional weight of stress while watching Real Madrid's bad start of the season, his metabolism snatched everything it could to storage. And it catapulted back to his face more than the appendix that stood on the shelf under the bathroom mirror and drove Sara crazy. He didn't feel any different on his feet, and the _'Magia'_ that fled across the field wasn't any less impressive.

But, like doping, it represented a problem. The one that could, admittedly, be solved a lot easier and with minimal risk of losing one's career. Little by little. Just like Modrić when he first came back from the World Cup, hunched like a limp rag.

However, there was his temper.

It was like a separate entity with its own will and reasons to act. When he was younger, it's been getting him into more problems than Isco felt comfortable to admit. But as of now, when he was unable to give his full capacity, both in Ciudad de Real Madrid and on the field, it flared to enormous extents.

The team didn't like it.

Isco became aware of brief displeased glances from the corner of his eye, and it made him feel uneasy in his own skin, but that he could live with.

In reality, the one who was in the line of fire was Solari.

There was this counting fiasco, but Isco stood his ground. There's really no point in counting passes out loud in _Rondo_ when they have enough problems concentrating on the exercise itself. And besides, Toni was the one keeping count. Always, even if someone else was tasked to do it, Toni would count as a backup — a gesture everyone greatly appreciated.

But of course, his quick mouth had to express the opinion, in a bit rougher form to be considered just an 'opinion' (it was more of a cheeky remark). Solari pinned him down with a gaze that promised no good, and Isco still stubbornly held it. He wasn't scared. He was well familiar with those kinds received from Zidane.

„Are you an idiot?" Sergio hissed at him later, on their way to the gym. He bristled like an alpha wolf, all but snarling, but Isco stood his ground, defiant glimmer in his eyes. ˮYou wanna get in trouble with the new coach already?"

„What for? Because I pointed out the obvious?" He had the audacity to grin and pat the bedazzled captain on the chest before proceeding. ˮQuit worrying, will you? I'm not bailing on you because I had a little marriage fight with Solari. That ain't happening."

As it turns out, that's very much what happened.

While Zidane never benched him, Solari didn't hesitate to.

To the media, Real's new coach clarified it was to test youth forces, and so far, they've been doing great. Llorente, Vinicius, and Odriozola in particular. The future of the club was bright. That was the overall image.

Isco kept his mouth shut to the public, but from inside, he was very much displeased.

Eibar was a pain to watch alone. By the second goal, Lucas buried his head in his hands on the bench and didn't look up until it was time to go. And by the time he was ready on the edge of the pitch, waiting for Modrić to walk over, worn out to the hairband, Isco was shaking with uncontained nervousness.

It didn't help. Nothing helped. They were desynchronized and completely demotivated, and back in the dressing room, everyone was visibly angry and frustrated, Thibaut in particular. Karim changed in under half a second, just stuffed everything in a bag and left. No other sound would reside in the dressing room other than the team packing had Isco not felt the need to vent out loud, allegedly to Marco, but if the younger player being occupied with having his bag filled was any hint, Asensio didn't share the attention.

„I'm telling you if I was subbed in earlier, or maybe since the very start, things would've been different. I mean, yes, he had me in the block there, but I could've dribbled him out if I had someone a bit closer on the other side. And what's up with the ref anyway? That guy back there definitely deserved a yel—"

„For Christ's sake, just _shut up_ , already, will you?" Carvajal bellowed, cutting through the curtains of his composure.

The attacked midfielder's mouth clamped shut the same instant and remained as such while he stared at the defender who eye-battled him a few more intense seconds, then grabbed his stuff and stormed after Benzema. In renewed silence that befell the dressing room, the mesmerized Isco collected a few more glances; reproving and sympathetic alike, the latter coming mainly from Marcelo and Marco who gave his shoulder a tired pat before departing.

Isco felt discontent pressing from all sides and squeezing his fist around the water bottle, denting it into its crumpled imitation without him realizing.

Ramos was, as usual, the last to leave. Before he did, he gave his unruly colleague one final look. It carried more than just a pique. ˮAnd stop sulking", he reprimanded, obviously measuring the bottle act as a conscious episode. ˮYou're really not helping anyone with it right now."

  
  


Isco's general displeasure kept growing.

His glumness reflected on training. More than once he caught himself aimlessly shooting the ball rather than passing it with precision and earned himself the befitting tongue lashings. As if it wasn't enough, he snapped at Solari on one occasion and Ramos had to drag him aside to make him calm down. The irony, Isco thought while not processing anything that was being yelled at him, is that the team's general brawler was the one to give him a lesson not to do it. He would push through the rest of the day, then sit up all night gripping his hair and wondering how did all this happen in the first place.

And now here he was, sitting on the stands of Roma and watching Lucas' ball shake the net. Freezing. Fuming. Bouncing his leg. The final whistle couldn't come fast enough.

The straw that broke the camel's back was yet to come, though.

He didn't know at which point it occurred, or who told him (must've been one of the staff members), but when he was told he won't be playing the next game at all either, he became completely oblivious of his surroundings and his legs carried him on their own until he found them on the other end of one corridor.

Solari. And Ramos.

Talking.

For a moment, Isco's mind went completely blank. Like he took a bullet to the forehead and was in that blissful mid-state of not realizing he's been shot. Then something went off.

He charged forward with no more sense than a bull agitated at a muleta being dangled before his eyes, with a series of images mixing in his mind and trying to tell him something when a pair of arms wrapped around his front and he was pulled back against someone's chest. Involuntarily, he fought to break free, but whoever it was they wouldn't relent either.

„Isco, stop."

„Let me go" Isco snarled.

„For Lord's name", Luka barked, struggling to hold him in place. He didn't remember him this strong before. ˮPull yourself together... attacking Solari isn't going to solve anything!"

„I'm not going to _attack_ him", the younger growled — _actually_ growled, the Croat realized, mildly horrified — still tirelessly pulling against the bonds Modrić had him trapped in. ˮI'm going to _kill_ him."

„You're out of your mind", Luka seethed. ˮYou don't know what you're talking about, you're not thinking straight. Stop that!"

„I never thought straighter in my life. _Let me go._ "

When Isco kept grunting and struggling to get free, and Modrić knew that if he let him go, it would be the end of every last string of composure this club still had snap and completely collapse. So he used all strength he had to drag the younger midfielder down the hallway whose resistance seemed to slacken a small bit. He used it to push him through the door of the nearest room—the communal showers.

Isco stumbled into the empty room, all but being thrown in, arms flailing from the force and uncontainable hot angry energy making his body tremble. Behind him, Modrić shut the door with a bang.

„What is wrong with you?" he hollered; his voice exploded around tiled walls. ˮYou're _trying_ to get yourself kicked out?!"

„You can't tell me you don't see what he's doing!" Isco yelled back defensively, gesturing towards the door. ˮHe won't let me play! He's _humiliating_ me! What kind of a player has to ask for a _fucking permission_ to enter his own dressing room?"

„ _Quiet_ down. Yes, I've seen it. We all have. Why else do you think Sergio went to talk to him."

„Well did I ask him to?"

„No, but as a captain, he is responsible for solving everything for this pathetic team, and is doing his damn job. At least he gets it. And you and I are gonna have a little talk."

„What? I don't want any stupid talks."

„Too bad, I don't care."

„Why should we? And why you?"

„Because I'm the oldest."

Isco snorted mockingly, lifting an eyebrow. ˮSo what, you think you can tell me what to do? You think that just because you are credited as the _best midfielder in the world_ , you can just waltz into place and everybody should bow at your feet? Well, you'll forgive me if I keep standing up straight for your control-freak-having ass. Actually, you know what? I think I'm just seeing it now." he sneered in some grotesque form of self-satisfaction. He walked over close, less than a head's distance between their faces and when he spoke next, he made sure each word was heard perfectly clear. ˮYou're no better than Ronaldo."

Modrić only stared at first. He didn't move or respond to the oozing sarcasm dripping off the Spaniard's arrogant tongue. But then Isco found himself yelping in pain and stumbling forward when the slightly shorter midfielder grabbed his left ear in a merciless grip and twisted it.

„Ow, what the fuck! Let go you fucking, good-for-nothing, big-nosed- _\- aah, ow!_ Okay! _Okay!_ I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please, just stop. Let me go! I'm sorry!"

„You see?" Luka spoke quietly after letting the Spaniard whine, who went far from his cheeky self now in just a millisecond. His gaze was firm and scolding as it could be with the natural features of his face and the attempt actually made him frightening. He didn't loosen the grip in the slightest. ˮIt's this kind of talk that got you into this shit in the first place."

Bent over to ease the pressure at least a bit and gripping the Croat's wrist, but not daring to try and pry it off, Isco looked up at the older midfielder and would've jumped away had he not feared for his ear to remain in Luka's fingers. Completely out of character, Luka radiated eerie coldness from every pore in his body, steady and relentless. Isco felt it loom over his person like a tent of ice and he tried in vain to cast away the feeling of being terrified.

His eyes were pleading and painful, seeking to soften up the Croatian's usually kind heart, but Modrić didn't budge or blink. He swallowed, knowing just how serious the Eastern-European was because Luka never, _ever_ swore, unless he was extremely highly frustrated for a good cause. Which is when he actually turned scary.

„First things first, you're forgetting who you're talking about and how", Luka started, undeterred voice still low. ˮAnd I'm not talking about myself. Cristiano was tearing down local nets with rag balls while you were still in diapers trying to figure out how to use your _legs_. You think I'm stupid? I know you didn't like him. I know that you were the one who was most relieved when he left, and I swear to God if you didn't turn more insolent after he did... I'm well familiar with all that. But even now, you will not speak of Cristiano that way _ever again_. Not on my watch, or anyone else's. You owe him respect for all he did for us, and what he keeps doing for Juventus. Are we clear?"

„P-please- - just—"

Luka wrung his hand warningly. ˮ _Are we_?"

„ _Ow!_ Yes, _yes_ , I'm sorry!"

„Do you think I enjoy doing this? Do you think Sergio enjoys wasting precious energy he could be saving for more important matters than trying to save your sorry behind since you're so determined not to do it yourself?" he kept speaking in this same eerily calm voice that barely bounced off the walls, and Isco wished above all that he would just keep yelling, because this was unbearable. It clutched him in suspense, and if it was Modrić's goal, it couldn't be crueler. Plus his ear was beginning to go numb. But damn him if he dared to interrupt the Croat now.

„Let me ask you something. And I want you to listen very carefully. When you're shooting free kicks, do you calculate the direction you want the ball to go? Do you see it before your eyes, feel it in your leg?"

„What kind of a—"

„Francisco."

„Yes. Yes, I do", the Spaniard spluttered rapidly before his hearing tool could suffer additional damage.

„Do you do the same thing with your brain, or do you just open your mouth without considering what might come out of it? Are you _insistent_ on acting stupider than you really are? Are you adamant that I should treat you like a child? Because I know you're smart. I know you can get yourself out of tight situations. But sometimes I can't help but think you're just too goddamn lazy to remember how your behavior reflects on the others and effects the entire team. _Still_. I honestly didn't think you could sink this low. Try to pull your head out of your ass for once and _think_."

Chastized out of his mind, and humiliated anew, Isco stumbled for the X-th time that day when he was roughly released, hand immediately flying up to nurse his offended ear. He stared in shock at the man who was the chainlink, the glue that kept this club from falling apart, who was so underrated in the eyes of the world that he didn't deserve to reside in it. The midfielder before him was angry and that rage reached far deeper than just having to chastise his younger colleague. It mingled with something else; something that was causing way more pain than just an ear tug.

„You are needed to this team. Stop trying to make yourself seem like you're not. We have a new coach, yes. He doesn't make all the right decisions. He's new to this whole situation just as we are, and I know for a fact that Sergio is out there telling him the exact same thing. It's never been this difficult before for all of us, and I'm sure fans feel the same way, if there are any left."

Now anger was replaced by something else. Something pleading, old, and so, so exhausted, and the Croat's gaze turned familiar again. ˮBut please, I'm begging you... Since Sergio and I are already pushing this rock uphill alone, stop trying to make it more difficult for us. Any additional weight is going to tear this team apart. It's not contracts that keep us together. It's us, the players. And if we start causing turmoil from within", he spread his arms apart, having them fall back down with heavy thumps against his thighs. ˮWe're done." He swallowed, eyes pleading and tired. ˮWe need you... Please, Isco."

The Spaniard suddenly felt the urge to vomit, and his heart clenched within his ribs. He had to take a deliberate breath to not explode. Into tears, into puking, into screaming... or all three together. And then, slowly, the situation on what he had tried to do earlier dawned on him like a drench of ice cold water poured over his head.

He blew air out frustratedly and gripped his hair, turned around and paced a few steps, paused, then came back. The look in his dark eyes was imploring. ˮWhat am I gonna do?"

„Go talk to him. Go out there and — no, quit rolling your eyes like a grumpy teenager. Listen to me — you're going to talk to him. Face to face, adult to adult. And if you feel like you're gonna punch him... just... count to ten. Think of something nice", he paused, licking his lips, words forming in his mind, clear as day. ˮThink of your son."

This made Isco meet his gaze, and he suddenly saw all exhaustion and fatigue that have crawled into every additional wrinkle someone Modrić's age shouldn't have yet. It shook him how this man had in fact, from the day Isco first came into the club, always been there for him. Even in the moments he publically had to embarrass him to provoke some kind of a beneficial reaction, he did it for him, and therefore for the team. Alarcón realized just how much this man meant to all of them, and wondered — if there's so much unselfishness in him to always put others before him... who was there to remind him to separate time for himself?

Luka sighed, reading the young man like a book. He reached out and cupped the back of his neck, and Isco gratefully leaned into a hug, burying his face in the Croatian's shoulder. The arms around him held him up, strong, despite the body's fragile built and Isco did his best to show he meant the same, hugging back as firmly as he could.

„I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said those things about you, about Cristiano. I-I didn't mean it. God, I'm so selfish, I never even... I'm just so _sorry_."

„I know you are", Luka said and gave his nape a comforting caress. ˮSometimes we all just need a bust, even if it hurts. Otherwise, the world would be stuck in place.

You are good, Isco. You are smart, you are strong, and you can do everything you put your mind to. Whatever decision you make out of this, it's going to be all yours, and we'll support you in it as best as we can. Just don't let yourself be led astray."

Isco made a sound between a sob and a strained laugh, glad Luka's shoulder muffled it. Emotions intertwined in his heart, so powerful that he thought it would burst: relief, pride, joy, regret, guilt, pain, fear... ˮThank you."

Luka hummed and gently stroked the back of his head, hoping the action would calm the younger player down. He could feel his agitation and body stiff from stress, not just from today, and not just from disrespect from Solari. Modrić inwardly cursed the man. He was doing them good, but he was vindictive, and a man his age, experience, and status should know better than that. A good coach should confront his players, not cast them aside like a wrong wrench. Isco could play confident and cocky all he wanted. Luka could see right through him. He knew how much Real Madrid meant to him, and to be mortified to this measure would leave him in stitches. Like those post-appendicitis weren't enough.

While his brain ran a marathon, he nearly missed Alarcón's next words.

„And please don't go."

Luka remained eerily quiet at this for so long that Isco instinctively tightened his embrace, terrified, like the Croatian captain would slip out of his grip akin to water fleeting from cupped hands.

Finally, though, there was the answer. ˮ...That I can't promise."

„But—"

„Shh. Don't argue. We all know my old bones aren't what they used to be. You said it yourself back in September, eh? No, I think... I think my time here is finally really over. For six years I've been giving all I had to this club..." The Croatian paused, realizing he had just quoted his former Portuguese colleague. He swallowed. ˮEverything changes, eh? Now it's time for others to step in to fill my place."

„Shut up, don't say that", Isco cut him off, suddenly feeling difficulty ripping the words out of his clogged throat. ˮJust don't. You know whoever those bastards bring could never replace you out there."

„Of course he couldn't", Modrić agreed. ˮHe'll be himself, not me. And while I can't speak for him, I bet I can make you promise me something."

„Yes. A-anything."

„You will give everything you have on the field. You'll be passing the hell out of that ball, give your best, work hard as you have always done, and that you'll think of the club's benefits before your own — _especially_ when you're out there. You will give the opposing teams something to talk about, and you will do it with heart."

Isco was already nodding his head, glad he was looking over the other midfielder's shoulder so he couldn't see his eyes turning glassy. ˮI will. I will, I swear. More than that."

„Good", Luka said and leaned away so he could see the younger's face. He grinned a wide, comforting, toothy smile and patted Isco's cheek affectionately. ˮReal needs to know they have at least one magician left."

„Shut the fuck up", Isco stepped back, half-gasping, half-laughing, and reached to wipe at the corners of his eyes in quick succession. He sniffed sharply, looking everywhere but Modrić's eyes. ˮI don't need you to make me bawl my eyes out now."

Luka laughed heartfully, and Isco realized it's been a concerningly long while since he did so. ˮNah, you're too tough for that. Now go get 'im, tiger."

Isco dutifully turned to walk to the door, without unnecessary comment this time for once, but stopped mid-step and turned back around. ˮHey, Lukita?"

„Hm?"

Isco rubbed at his ear again, feigning leftovers of pain, even as it was already long gone. ˮDid you really have to go for the ear, though?"

Modrić crooked an eyebrow in amusement. ˮWhat, you would've preferred spanking?"

„What?! _No!_ "

„Then be happy I didn't do what Keylor suggested."

Isco spluttered. ˮT-that was his idea?!"

„Relax. I'm joking. You'll realize when you're older."

„I'm not a fucking kid!"

„Yes. Yes, you are."

Isco was already blushing, but now he went stark red when the elder actually pinched him on the cheek and laughed again when the mortified Spaniard swatted at his hand and stormed out.

When Luka exited after him, Marcelo was standing there. He didn't ask anything; just accepted the Brazilian's outstretched arm for a half-hug. He watched Isco walk down the hall on his unique feet and Sergio coming from the other way. _La Furia_ captain placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear for a few moments. Finally, Alarcón nodded and Ramos gave him a good-luck kiss on his temple before releasing him.

„Well done", Marcelo said quietly to Luka, returning the smile Ramos was giving him and winked.

Modrić pouted. ˮHe could choose between being the death of us, or making us proud and he still insists on doing the former."

„Yeah, but he wouldn't be Isco if he didn't. And he's making us all proud either way."

„Let us hope so."

Sergio joined them and they watched Solari and the rebellious midfielder talk. Luka noted Isco going completely still in one moment and take a few deep breaths, eyes floating off to the distance, but eventually, the conversation ended with a firm handshake, making all three older players sag with relief. While Isco was coming back, a bright, wide grin adorning his face, Luka gave a nasal exhale.

„Yes... He'll be fine."

„We all will", Marcelo agreed.

  
  


Isco played against Valencia, albeit the last ten minutes instead of Ceballos. But it was the best agreement they could've come to, so he kept his mouth shut. He passed the ball well and when the whistle went off, actually felt good about himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this would be 1500 words maximum, but words just kept coming and led us to this mess. 
> 
> Y'all know that scene from Sherlock? 
> 
> "Go after him, and apologize."  
> *shocked face* " _Apologize?_ "


End file.
